“Don’t worry, I remembered.” Julian’s smile brightened his handsome face, and I saw why his cell phone often buzzed with calls from young women. He ducked into the walk-in and brought out two trays covered with plastic wrap. Each tray was dotted with perfect rows of triangles. “Wild mushroom risotto in phyllo, my latest creation for the bistro. Three dozen, all yours. They’re served hot, and are good with fancy white or red wine.” He put the trays on the counter and reached back into the walk-in for two more trays. Under the wrap I discerned small lettuce wraps with an asparagus spear and slice of avocado peeking out from each one. “Shrimp-salad rolls,” he explained. “Served cold, and also great with wine.”
“You’re a god. I’ll square with you later.”
Julian snorted. “Don’t worry about it.” He cocked an eyebrow as he looked out the window over the sinks. “Still snowing out there. The roads are going to be snowpacked and icy. You sure they’re going to go ahead with this?”
I said, “Oh, hell,” as I realized I hadn’t even checked my messages, and the machine light was blinking. I pressed the button, and Julian and I only had to hear Hermie MacArthur’s voice say, “We’re going ahead with the party,” before we were once again bustling around the kitchen. “Everyone lives nearby, and they all want to try out their four-wheel-drive vehicles in the snow.” Her voice crackled over the bad connection. “Oh, and we’ve added one person to the dinner, I hope that’s all right.” Julian groaned, and I broke out in a sweat. “Actually he invited himself to replace Drew Wellington and…there was nothing I could do about it. Also, could you bring something vegetarian? Our daughter is grounded to her room and, well”—Hermie cleared her throat, and it came through my machine as a crack of thunder—“anyway, she’ll have a friend with her, too, and I think she’s also a vegetarian. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you.” Hermie’s voice had turned huffy. “Although I don’t know why I should have to—” At that point my machine cut her off. Thank God.
“You’d better believe you’re going to pay us,” Julian muttered as he retrieved a Gruyère quiche from the freezer side of the walk-in. “Oops, there’s somebody banging on your front door.”
It was Tom, arriving home later than I’d hoped. Still, I smiled. He looked like a young, handsome Santa, his nose red and shiny, his hair and dark parka dusted with snow, his arms full of packages.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he said merrily when he saw me. Could this man always read my mind? Apparently so, and there was nothing I wanted more at that moment than to be swept up the stairs by Santa and shown some lovin’.
I walked toward him, relieved him of half of the packages, and gave him a big hug and a long smooch. I shivered, and not just because he was cold.
“How are the roads, Santa Claus?”
“Terrible, Mrs. Claus. You’re still doing the MacArthurs’ shindig?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Better take your sleeping bags, then, because the snow’s really coming down.” He picked up the packages, then walked past me into the kitchen, where he heaved his bags onto the marble counter. “I, meanwhile, have been given my marching orders by the boys, who are still outside on their snowboards.”
“Please tell me they’re okay on the road. Could they accidentally slide into Main Street?” That helicopter-hovering-mom tone that Arch hated so much still crept into my voice from time to time.
“They’re fine.” Tom returned to hang up his coat. “There are cars that have slid in the mess at the bottom of our hill. Nobody’s coming up this way until a tow truck pulls those vehicles out. You all will have to go up our hill to get out.” He winked at me. “Regarding the boys? I did have to take a flask of tequila away from them.”
“Tom!”
He laughed all the way up the stairs. Julian reminded me that we were supposed to be at the MacArthurs’ place by seven at the latest, so we could get all our preparations ready for an eight o’clock party. And, he added, we should forget my van and just take his Rover. I reluctantly agreed.
I called a good-bye to Tom, slipped into my parka and new boots that had a thicker tread on them than any of Goodyear’s snow tires, and heaved up the first of our boxes. When Arch, Gus, and Todd saw Julian and me schlepping out boxes, they offered to assist us, and we had Julian’s Range Rover packed up in less than a quarter of an hour. Bless the boys for helping. I doubted they actually felt altruistic motives. Anything to be thought of as “cool” by Julian was good enough for them.
And Julian was pretty cool himself, I thought as I swallowed and gripped the Rover’s leather passenger seat while Julian maneuvered up our hill. Unfortunately, to get to the road leading to the interstate, we had to go down an icy hill that was steeper than our own street. Somebody in a Jeep came up too fast and began to slide wildly on the ice. Note to SUV drivers, I wished someone would say to Colorado newcomers, four-wheel drive helps you on snow, not ice. Julian, muttering obscenities, careened onto a ridge, whipped wildly past a “No Parking” sign and a juniper hedge, then galumphed down onto the snowpacked road out of town. The rest of our trip was slow going but steady, and my heart didn’t climb into my throat again until we were making our final ascent to the MacArthurs’ house.
The road to Regal Ridge was unplowed but not untraveled, and Julian kept the Rover going steadily uphill. Once we entered the Regal Ridge Country Club area, instead of a guardrail, which the home owners’ association would have deemed unaesthetic, bulky boulders had been placed between the road and the chasm that separated the Ridge from the interstate. The rocks, now blanketed with snow, took on the unreal cast of frozen animals. I shivered. When we finally pulled around into the dead end where the MacArthurs’ sprawling stucco house was located, I exhaled in relief.
“Well, darlin’, you made it. How ’bout that?” Hermie MacArthur raised her almost colorless eyebrows and feigned surprise as she pushed open her side door. What did she think, we were going to ditch her? But I said nothing, only smiled up at her. She’d had her gray-blond hair styled in a curly mass that framed her broad face, and her light blue eyes missed nothing as she looked us up and down. I hadn’t been able to tell, in our previous meeting, whether her Southern accent was real or affected, but now I decided it was real.
“I was just telling Smithfield I didn’t know who I was s’pposed to call if y’all didn’t show up, with these people coming…” On and on she chattered, and I nodded and smiled politely. Eventually I managed to zone out her talking as I brought in boxes. Julian, who moved much faster than I did whether he was wearing boots or sneakers, was doing the same thing. “I hope y’all brought some canapés,” she went on as she surveyed our trays, “because Smithfield has some things to say t’ the guests, I think that’s the Barclays comin’ now—”
Mercifully she disappeared.
“Hermie?” Smithfield MacArthur’s ham face was redder than usual. “Now where did my wife go?” he demanded.
“She didn’t say,” Julian replied confidently as he leaned into the Viking stove to preheat it. “Are you going to serve the cocktails to the guests?” he asked. “We just need to know when to bring in the food—”
“I need help with my map!” Smithfield cried. “That’s what I need.”
“I’ll help you,” I offered. I ignored Julian groaning beside me, wiped my hands on my apron, and scooted after Smithfield. The needs of the host are foremost. Oops, that reminded me. I raced back to the kitchen door and stuck my head in. “Don’t forget to heat up the quiche for our vegetarian teens—”
“I’m working on it. Just go see what the big guy’s problem is.”
Smithfield’s problem, as it turned out, was how he was going to display his map of Colorado Springs. Strictly speaking, it was a panorama, showing a snowcapped Pikes Peak, the aptly named Garden of the Gods nearby, and the town nestled at the base of the hills. Smithfield pointed impatiently to one side of the map, which was mounted on an indeterminate sort of board.
“Lift it carefully, then place it on the
buffet and lean it against the wall.”
I swallowed and looked around. The buffet was where we were supposed to lay out our bains-marie for hotel pans of curry and rice. No more. Smithfield had summarily shoveled the bains bases—already set out by Hermie, as promised—onto one of the four beige couches that had been spaced between massive walnut furniture in the cavernous living room. Great.
“Lord, girl, will you pay attention?” Smithfield snapped. “Place it exactly in the middle of the buffet.”
I did as directed, thinking it had been a very long time since I’d been called a girl. With the panorama in place, Smithfield ordered me to hold it still as he fiddled with the overhead lights, which he brought from dim to bright. I blinked, thinking this was hardly the light one would want at dinner.
“Ah,” he said finally. “Much better.” He beamed at me. “What do you think? Isn’t it magnificent?”
I squinted so I could see him. “It’s fantast—”
Smithfield held up a meaty palm to stop me and quirked one of his bushy eyebrows. “Did you know William J. Palmer wanted to make the Springs an exemplary town in the bad old West? One of high moral character with no booze allowed?” Smithfield barked a laugh as my eyes widened. I was thinking of the curry that needed heating, the side dishes that had to be set out, and my need to find a new place for the buffet offerings. Yet here I was getting a lecture on high moral values in Colorado Springs.
“No, sir, I didn’t know, but—”
“And the Barclays, our special guests tonight, are from Colorado Springs,” he crowed, rubbing his hands together. “They are going to love—”
“Oh, Smithfield, what in holy hell have you done here?” Hermie shrieked as she appeared at the entry to the dining room, a pair of guests in tow, the presumptive Barclays. “What a mess!”
“Hermie! This is a panorama worth ten thousand dollars! It’s not a mess. It’s a thing of beauty—”
“Oh, you and your maps,” Hermie grumbled as she bustled forward. “If it’s worth ten thousand dollars, then why don’t you sell it for that? Or is that too much to ask? Oh Lord, these doggone maps.” She shot me a furious look, as if her husband’s collecting folly were somehow my fault. Then she impatiently lifted one corner of the panorama. “Goldy, help me move this thing off the buffet.”
“Stop!” Smithfield ordered. “I will help you. Mother of God, Hermie, why do you always have to jump in and try to take charge of things you know nothing about?” He quickstepped forward and raised the other corner of the panorama. “All right, put it on the mantel.”
“Smithfield!” Hermie shouted. “I don’t want it on the mantel!”
“Then it goes on the buffet.”
Gripping the sides of the panorama, they seemed to be at an impasse. Mr. Barclay, a tall, slender man with hair the gray tint of pine bark, shifted from foot to foot as his short, chunky wife licked her lips. They both looked to me for a clue as to what they were supposed to do.
“Let me fix you a cocktail while we set up the buffet,” I said pleasantly as my two hosts grunted and fretted and argued as they crab-walked to their hearth, which was topped with a long wooden mantel full of Native American knickknacks.
“I’m Dr. Zach Barclay,” the tall man said as he held out his hand. I managed not to ask if “Doctor” was his first name while he turned to the woman at his side. They were both dressed in the style I thought of as Colorado Casual, dark slacks and bright silk shirts. “This is my wife, Catherine. I’ll open some wine for us. You look as if you’re wanting to get back to something.”
“Or someplace,” Catherine Barclay said with a knowing smile. “Like the kitchen. Don’t worry, I’ll set up your bains-marie. I like to cook myself,” she said apologetically, “and Zach is always complaining about the amount of equipment I have. If it’s got a French name, he complains, it costs twice as much. Go ahead, I can do this.”
Ecstatic to be dismissed, I scampered back to the kitchen. The luscious scents filling the space eased my stress. Caterers were often asked to do all kinds of odd jobs at the party destination, but moving an expensive panorama around was a first for me. And, I hoped, a last.
“The hors d’oeuvres are almost done,” Julian announced, “plus, the daughter of the house just called down to say she and her girlfriend want their vegetarian dinner in about forty-five minutes. We can do the canapés and soup together, if you like. Then either you or I can take the girls some canapés, their quiche, some dessert, and maybe a salad, if we can find something in the MacArthurs’ refrigerator—”
“And the other one can serve the curry with all its condiments?”
Julian nodded. “Which duty would you like? Uh, the young lady upstairs says she has her girlfriend visiting,” he added. “I made up a tray with two place settings.”
“Oh Lord, give me the kids. Although I feel guilty handing over the main course to you.” In the background, the doorbell bonged. Great—more guests arriving, and I had no idea whether Hermie and Smithfield had settled their differences. “First, let’s make sure the bains are set up, too. Our host moved them to the couch, and one of the guests, Catherine Barclay, promised to move them back. I have no idea whether she knows what’s what.”
“I can handle that,” Julian assured me, and I felt no doubt that he could. He walked confidently out of the kitchen while I rummaged in the MacArthurs’ refrigerator for more dishes to offer the teenagers. Eventually, I found, washed, and spun spinach for a salad, made them a plate of wild mushroom risotto in phyllo that would only need a brief heating, gathered up half a dozen rolls and a stick of butter, and placed all these goodies on the large tray Julian had meticulously set. Last I popped the quiche into the oven.
By that time, Julian had returned, and he said all the guests but one had arrived. Unlike the folks coming to the library breakfast, these people didn’t want to cocoon when there was crime or bad weather in town. In fact, Hermie had warned that the cold weather and snow had piqued the guests’ thirst, and they were already passing on the fancy wines and slugging down bourbon, scotch, vodka, and gin.
I whispered, “Uh-oh,” and nabbed the nearest platter of cold hors d’oeuvres. Julian hurriedly pushed the first sheet of phyllo-wrapped risotto into the oven, grabbed another platter of the cold shrimp rolls, and together we dashed out to the living room. Guests hitting the liquor hard on empty stomachs was like aiming a rocket-propelled grenade into your party. Luckily, the deep freeze outside had piqued folks’ appetites as well as their thirst, and as we made our rounds, I thanked heaven that Julian’s bistro boss had bestowed appetizer blessings on us.
Neil Tharp squeezed between the Barclays and nabbed three shrimp rolls in one hand.
“Help yourself, Mr. Tharp,” I said pleasantly.
He lifted his pudgy chin and said, “I will.” But he didn’t sound pleasant.
When I was making my second round with hot hors d’oeuvre, Hermie pulled me aside. “We can’t wait for Larry. Could you serve the soup now?”
“Absolutely.” Maybe Larry Craddock had driven over a cliff. I mused over whether this was good news or bad news as I ladled steaming dumpling soup into heated bowls. The curry, meanwhile, had begun to bubble, and with any luck, we were going to pull this party off, whether or not Larry showed his bald head and angry face.
After we’d served the soup, the timer went off for the quiche.
“Boss, go serve the girls.” Julian used hot pads to remove the quiche from the oven. “I’ve got the curry and condiments covered.”
“You’re the best.” Without hesitating, I heaved up the teenagers’ tray, checked that there was a back staircase, and finally, imitating unset gelatin, slithered out.
Upstairs, I walked down a long, plushly carpeted hallway until I found the only room with a rock-star poster on the door. Sometimes teenagers, in their attempt to be avant-garde, end up being remarkably conformist. I’m sure I had been exactly the same way, only with a different star on the door, and no caterer to bring
me dinner when I’d been banished to my room.
“Yeah, come on!” a voice from inside called. Not an auspicious welcome, I decided as I tried to balance the tray and simultaneously open the door. But it opened suddenly, and I fell forward. It was only with an enormous effort of balance that I kept the quiche from going airborne.
“Hi there,” I said politely. “I’m Goldy.”
The two girls, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, regarded me awkwardly. They’d slathered their faces with a bright turquoise, puttylike concoction that I assumed was some kind of skin treatment. The only part of their faces not pasted with blue was their eyes, which peered out from masklike white Os. They’d wrapped their heads with towels, and each had pinned a brooch just above their widow’s peaks, to keep the turbans in place. The one who had opened the door was taller than her friend, although I couldn’t really tell, because the other sat on a bed covered with a plush pink quilt. Her thin mouth was pulled into a disapproving pucker. I noted that she was so thin, her legs and arms resembled twigs.
“I’m Vix Barclay,” said the one who’d opened the door, motioning me forward to a white built-in desk. “And that’s Chantal. I’ll just move all this stuff over.” Vix shoved a pile of papers onto the floor. “Chantal, you’re a slob.”
“I am not,” said Chantal. To me, she said, “Thanks for the food. Did you bring any booze?”
“Why, hello to you, too,” I said pleasantly. “I’m your parents’ caterer tonight. Your mother asked me to bring you your dinner.”
“I said,” Chantal went on in an imperious tone, “‘Did. You. Bring. Any. Booze?’”
“Chantal!” Vix squealed. “How the hell did you get grounded in the first place? Jeez!”
“No, I didn’t pick up any alcoholic beverages on my way to your room,” I said lightly, placing the tray onto the cleared spot on the desk. “But I brought all kinds of good food—”
“Have my parents stopped fighting?” Chantal demanded. “I could hear them all the way up here.”
Sweet Revenge Page 18
